Thursday, April 24, 2014

When
I was eleven years old I wanted to be Johnny Knoxville. This was evident by the
hysterical number of gags I would pull on my friends and sisters that always
ended as brutally as season nine of “Scrubs”.

And
this is where I learned the principle of being grounded.

For
full effect, download “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” by Harry Caray, and play at
maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

After
my shenanigans, my parents would banish me to the windowless cell that I called
my room, a cell lined with posters of NBA superstars and those glow-in-the-dark
plastic stars we all used to stick to our ceilings with secondhand gum. There I
would lay on my bed in the dark, pull out my vintage Audiovox cassette player,
position the antennae at just the right angle, play around with the wheel on
the front that would be targeted for 1320 KFAN, and I would listen to Steve
Klauke, the baritone voice of the Salt Lake Buzz, broadcast games long into the
night.

That was
the best therapy I ever had for being grounded as a kid.

Now I
know in the past I have blogged about my loathing for the sport of baseball.
But before you roll your eyes in disgust and think this will be just another
rant about the most mundane physical activity created since curling or test cricket, hold
on just a second, take a deep breath, and hear me out as I relive my childhood
memories through a 700-word blogpost.

You
see, there once was a point in my life where baseball meant something to me, it
had value in my eyes; or, in my ears, actually. On those lonely nights when I
was banished to the basement for putting chicken seasoning in the showerhead of
my sisters’ bathroom, or throwing a basketball at my neighbor’s little brother's face, the only thing to keep me company was the sure and steady monologue of
Steve Klauke, giving me a play-by-play recap of my favorite minor league
baseball team.

Those
were the nights I tell ya. Back when dusk smelled like recycled barbecues and
there was no such thing as a bedtime, those were the nights. And baseball,
well, that was my asylum. Minor league baseball was my Christmas in summer as I
would lay in bed and listen to my hometown Salt Lake Buzz engage in heated battles with
teams like the Albuquerque Dukes, the Tucson Toros, and the squad who I thought
was their arch-rival at the time, the Tacoma Rainiers.

And
you see, I was a fan. Not some Robert De Niro-going-to-stalk-Wesley Snipes kind
of guy, although I’m sure hardly any of you caught that reference to the
absurdly dark film about a lurking baseball freak, no, I was a loyal Salt Lake
Buzz fan, through and through. I could tell you the E.R.A. for LaTroy Hawkins,
or the batting average of Chris Latham, to this day I know how many errors
Denny Hocking made in 1996, that’s how devoted I was as an eleven-year old kid.

As a
kid, minor league baseball was pure happiness. It was the extra scoop of
rainbow sherbet you would sneak into your mouth when your parents had their
backs turned after dinner. It was better than using a Game Genie to get
unlimited spread fire and cheat your way to beating Contra. As a kid, those
hours spent with a radio broadcast of a minor league team were better than Home
Alone 2 and Space Jam combined. They were priceless.

It’s
been years since those glory nights of summertime baseball, and you know what,
every now and then I do get a little bit sentimental thinking about the Great
American Pastime being transmitted to grounded little kids in the basement.
Last week on a road trip up north I was surfing through the airwaves of AM
radio and heard a familiar voice, a voice calling out phrases I haven’t heard
since the Clinton Administration.

Steve
Klauke: “Here’s the pitch, line drive to center field, Chavez back at the
track, it’s up there, it’s out there, and it’s gone!”